


Bring on last call

by MercuryAlice



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Missing Scene, Rollins is an attack dog and we all know it, and isn't jealous at all, how dare you suggest that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:33:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryAlice/pseuds/MercuryAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock clicks his tongue, a condescending sound that makes him bare his teeth in return. It’s a nice change. Familiar. It makes him want to punch his teeth in. More than usual. Which is wonderfully even footing to be on. It hasn’t escaped him that the rest of STRIKE-- barring Cap, who didn’t know any better-- had been on edge for weeks because they hadn’t been at each other’s throats anywhere near as much as usual; safe houses after missions had been left with furniture intact, it was downright alarming if you knew the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring on last call

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of what will hopefully be a series, written for mad4s4hatter.

There’s a lot of reasons that Rumlow runs point on STRIKE instead of Rollins, not least of all because Rumlow doesn’t really take orders from him; not outside of the occasional snarled argument in the field when the guy makes the wrong call and Rollins makes the right one, fuck you very much. But more than that, it’s because he doesn’t particularly care to have that job. Same job, just with more paperwork and more room to fuck up. He’s more than happy to be the guy with the rifle who can shrug and claim his finger slipped sarcastically when he ‘accidently’ blows someone’s brains out because it’s a hell of a good way to cut off the speeches some of the morons come out with.

 

If he wanted to sit through wannabe super villain soapboxing, he’d get under Pierce’s desk and suck him off for the trouble. ‘ _He wasn’t gonna fucking give us anything anyway_ ’ is a very common phrase in his vocabulary, and he’s more than okay with that.

 

Or rather, he’s okay with being allowed to have that. Right up until he isn’t, because they have to play nice for a boy scout who’d hang himself if you gave him enough rope and told him it’d save a bunch of people. Jack Rollins is a hell of an actor, but enjoy it he does not. It was cute for all of about five minutes, then it makes him want to jam the muzzle of a gun between Rogers’ pretty teeth every time he opens his mouth and half of the time when he doesn’t. But he consciously shaves the blithe edges off his comments and plays by the rules, because eventually, he’s going to be allowed to get that gun between the guy’s teeth and make him choke on it; and if not, a stray bullet through the throat would be just as gratifying, if a little anti-climatic.

 

It’s a good eighty percent of why he’s fucking glad he isn’t the one in charge, because having to play honey pot to Steve Rogers would probably make him neck himself from a ceiling fixture and he quite likes living. Rumlow can be the one taking the candy from that particular baby, thanks. It would have been hysterical if it wasn’t so pathetic. And fucking annoying.

 

‘Annoying’ is the word for it, he decides. It’s _annoying_ that he’s bored out of his mind half the time because Rumlow’s busy playing cockslut for America’s Sweetheart. It’s _annoying_ that he has to put on the good show for any length of time. And it’s really _fucking annoying_ that it impacts over a decade of practiced back and forth, because every comment has to run through a PG-13 filter for the sake of the long game.

 

Really, it’s not that much of a thing. It’s not like a personality transplant or anything, but it’s enough of one that it makes him have to consciously catch himself before he grits his teeth or something equally telling. After a lifetime of not giving a single solitary fuck about making someone think he could stand them if he couldn’t, it’s draining more than anything. And if he happens to spend a little more time terrorizing rookies out of Cap’s line of sight, well no one says a god damn thing about it. And he doesn’t need Rumlow to say a word about it to know he finds it entertaining.

 

~

 

“Aw, Jackie, starting to get a little pathetic.” Rumlow interrupts, about three seconds after Jack smacks the kid’s head into the wall for backchat that may or may not have actually happened. “Miss me that much?”

 

“Fuck off, cunt.” He bites back, not bothering to turn around, kicking the brat’s legs out from under him and letting him hit the ground with a mildly satisfying thump. “And you can fuck off too.” He clips with a kick to the ribs. The kid’s dragging himself out the door in the space it takes him to turn around and shrug.

 

Brock clicks his tongue, a condescending sound that makes him bare his teeth in return. It’s a nice change. Familiar. It makes him want to punch his teeth in. More than usual. Which is wonderfully even footing to be on. It hasn’t escaped him that the rest of STRIKE-- barring Cap, who didn’t know any better-- had been on edge for weeks because they hadn’t been at each other’s throats anywhere near as much as usual; safe houses after missions had been left with furniture intact, it was downright alarming if you knew the difference.

 

He sees Rumlow move, of course he does, but he doesn’t move until the back of his head hits the wall hard enough to make static creep in around the edges of his vision. Then he barks a laugh, or close enough to, given the hand around his throat. “Aw, Short-stack, missed me that much?” He parrots back, repressing another laugh at the fact that even now he’s looking down rather than ahead to make eye contact.

 

There’s something a little begrudging in the way Brock doesn’t hit him for it, since they both know shit’s about to get real on the Cap front and beating the ever-loving fuck out of each other doesn’t mesh with that goal for the time being. Rollins bares his teeth again, and for a second considers kneeing him in the nuts just for the hell of it. The thought it cut off by both their comms crackling to life, and their respective ‘ _Copy that_ ’ is synchronized; as is the silent agreement that this can wait.

 

They have an elevator to paint red, white and blue.

 

Rollins shoves and gets a harder one in return before they go their separate ways. Twenty minutes later, when Cap asks if anyone wants to get out, he bites his tongue one last time.

 

**_Show time._ **

 

 

 


End file.
